


All in Good Time

by saveupyourhopes



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Barebacking, Blood (feeding), Bottom Dean, Daddy Kink, M/M, Purgatory, Rating: NC17
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-16
Updated: 2013-04-16
Packaged: 2017-12-08 17:08:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/763888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saveupyourhopes/pseuds/saveupyourhopes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Purgatory, when the search for Castiel gets tiring, Dean gets desperate. Benny helps take the edge off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All in Good Time

“Dean.”

It's a gruff sound, Benny's voice—a low, low sing-song rumble over the crack and pop of firelight, over the howl and hoot and cry of Purgatory spooks. It's been quiet for a long time, now: long enough for Dean to find a patch of soft dirt and wiry grass free of pebbles and bones, nest down in it and sleep deep. The stillness alone is cause enough for suspicion, but he needs sleep like a dying man needs a breath of mercy and Benny is there—he's always there.

“Dean,” Benny sings again, dark and smoke-rough. He stands over Dean with his hands perched on his hips, and can't help a fond simper at the way his companion stirs, smacking his lips and flipping onto his belly, nestling his cheek down into the soil.

Benny'll let him be, for now.

 

~

 

The sky is still abysmally dark when Dean finally flinches back into the waking world. He comes arms and legs akimbo into alertness, panics when he sees only darkness in most directions but one—the fire, and the glint of pale eyes in the light of it. Dean feels his heart soar, brimming at the sight of blue eyes, too, _too_ familiar, and in an instant he begins to roll onto his side, positioning himself to vault onto his feet and slam Cas head-on with a full-armed hug.

But, then, lips split into a feral grin and Dean freezes; exhales, relaxes. Benny's eyes are unreadable, depthless diamond-blue. “Holdin' out all right?” He takes hold of a long, straight branch and stokes the kindling; adjusts himself against the fallen tree trunk he's using as back support.

Dean scrubs a hand over the back of his neck, adjusting himself where he sits, nestling down in the dirt. He lifts his knees, drapes his forearms across them. It takes a moment for him to speak. It's always like this—he comes to fitfully and takes long, long minutes to remember where he is, as if some part of his mind still expects to wake nestled down in low-end motel luxuries, his brother breathing deep at his side. “All right,” Dean grunts. “How long was I out for?”

“'bout two hours. Sleep good?”

“Mm.”

“Tried to get you to come to a little bit ago but you was out like a light, brother.” Benny chuckles, deep, gruff, but it dies quickly when Dean's only reply is a half-hearted grin. It's difficult for a monster to admit to his emotions, but they're there: Dean's so wrapped up in finding Cas that it takes away from this camaraderie, here, now, just Benny and just Dean and the fire that burns between them, and a shameless part of him hates the angel for it.

Dean's oblivious to the embroiled state of Benny's psyche. Maybe he should be able to pick up on it—the way Benny prods angrily at the kindling, the deepening creases of his frown—but he doesn't. He brushes his palms against his thighs and begins to stand, saying, “Unless you need to rest some, we oughta take off.” He goes on about Cas—about how he can't be too far off, now, they're gettin' closer and closer, he can just _feel_ it.

Dean stands, rambling on, and Benny cuts him off, grits out, “Sit down.”

It takes the hunter by surprise and, for a long moment, he stands looking down at Benny. He feels defiant, widens his stance and fixes the vampire with a look of suspicion. After a silence: “You got somethin' you need to say, Benny?” It sounds more like a threat than he intends it, but he doesn't stand down when the vampire looks up at him with slivers of silvery-blue.

“Said all I need t'say,” he grunts. They're choosing their words carefully, here—it takes them back to the day they met, under a haze of arid purgatory smog. They postured, they glared. They didn't mince words then, and they don't, now. “Sit down. We ain't goin' nowhere.”

“You're serious?” Dean asks after a moment, tonguing the inside of his cheek in thought, narrowing his eyes.

“As a heart attack. Sit down.”

Dean seems unsure, but he slowly comes to sit, taking a moment to ease back and relax. There's a moment of stilted silence between them, Dean uncertain of what to say or do to appease the tense frown on Benny's face. “You're throwin' me, here, Benny,” Dean finally says, managing a low, terse laugh.

“The angel can—”

“Benny,” Dean breaks in, urgent. “I said the only way we get outta here is if we find—”

“The angel can put up for his self for a little while longer.” Benny says, emphatic; levels a stern glare on Dean from beneath dark, lowered brows and the hunter feels scolded, diminished. He sits back, looking into the fire; he can still feel the vampire's eyes on him. “Now, don't you worry that pretty head o' yours. You enjoy this silence while you got the chance.”

And they do. Sitting in absolute silence it feels like peace, almost; not even the prickling sensation of eyes on them. It's almost too strange. Dean wonders, for a moment, if he's dreaming; scratching, pinching at the delicate skin on the inside of his wrist and knowing that this moment is one with a fixture in some semblance of reality. When Dean's eyes flit up, look past shivering tongues of flame, he finds Benny looking back at him; watches a smirk pluck at the vampire's mouth like a notion's struck him, straight out of the blue.

“C'mere,” Benny rumbles. It's a sound like faraway thunder, jolting Dean's limbs to life beneath a rush of chills, but he manages to smile, anyway, not moving.

“What—we gonna form a prayer circle, now? Pass around the peace pipe?”

“In a sense, I s'pose,” Benny gruffs. “Get over here, 'n we'll see.”

Dean freezes, his mouth going dry at the unfamiliar sharpness to Benny's voice. He's very serious, watching Dean with a predator's keen, slitted gaze. Calculating. Dean can't figure out why his legs and hands work so well together to push him off the ground, propel him toward where Benny sits splay-legged and grinning lazily, a hand working against the inside of his left thigh, shamelessly groping at the shape of his cock beneath his breeches. The sight causes Dean's breath to hitch, snag somewhere in his throat, his step faltering—Benny looks transformed by firelight, his features sinister, his smile wolfish, and when Dean pauses, the vampire urges him forward, saying, “Keep comin'.”

“Get down here,” Benny instructs. “Now, now. Don't you go gettin' shy.” The vampire simpers, reaching up to grab at the hem of Dean's shirt. He gives a sound yank and Dean's knees give beneath him. He listens, takes in the sound of Dean's breathing, shallow and quavering. “There's a good boy. Don't be scared. Just wanna take the edge off, that's all. 's been a hard time for you. I know.”

Benny's words put Dean in the mind of a wild animal being gentled, soothed. He can't shake the feeling that he's being led into some sort of trap, but then, he can't imagine what end Benny would be working toward. Dean would move mountains for Benny—especially if it meant getting Cas back, safe and sound—and the vampire knows he doesn't need pretension.

Dean knees up to Benny's right side, feeling a wide, splayed hand root beneath his jacket, beneath the opened flannel, touching the fabric of his t-shirt. Fingers creep across to the small of his back and urge Dean forward, and he leans in, curls his fingers into the lapels of Benny's coat and for a moment, they're nearly nose-to-nose. Dean surges, flinches violently when the vampire returns the gesture, grips the collar of Dean's jacket and holds him in place, calming him in a low murmur: _shhhh, shhhh_. “Hush, now,” he says, parting his lips, the tip of his tongue tracing the line of his teeth an open invitation that Dean accepts with a breath of reluctance before crumpling forward and kissing Benny with all his might.

Holding Dean in place with his right hand, Benny's left hand spreads across the heft of Dean's cock beneath his jeans, cupping him, groping. When Dean breaks their kiss to murmur, broken and raw, “Benny, man, why're—?” Benny cuts him back, tilts his head up to snag that plump lower lip between his teeth. “Told you. Gonna take th'edge off before we leave out.” His fingers are quick at Dean's fly, snapping the button free and fumbling with the zipper until it's opened enough that he can yank the denims partway, at least, down the hunter's thighs. Benny's right hand goes without preamble to Dean's cock, pumping him dry and firm, holding him there like it's an anchor in his fist when he slides two fingers into Dean's mouth without warning, curling against his tongue, fingertips pressing against the root of it. Dean chokes on pleasured breaths, twists his neck in an attempt to get away, but Benny's fingers are messy-wet in good time and, laughing low, he pulls them free.

Benny grips the base of Dean's cock so firmly that it aches; pulling away, it'd put him in a world of hurt. He's still when the vampire's hand disappears between his thighs, nudges up between his cheeks and at the sensation of two wet fingertips against his hole, Dean recoils—muscles clench, fingers turn to fists in the vampire's coat and he warns, “Benny. Benny, just—” but it does nothing in the way of deterring Benny's bold desire, and his steady grip on Dean only tightens when his middle finger plunges into the hunter's body to the second knuckle, eyes on him, predatory, scrutinizing.

Dean cries out, pressing close to Benny's chest. He wants to lash out, get defensive, get riled. Benny's too strong to try to pull away from, and when his finger hooks forward, playing 'come hither' with Dean's insides, Dean can't remember why he wanted to protest in the first place. He feels the tip of Benny's ring finger prod at the sensitive skin of his opening and quickly recalls. “Benny, it's been a long—I can't. Can't take it, man,” he pleads, working his hips in an attempt to fight Benny's fingers out.

“Don't lie to me,” the vampire croons. “I know you, Dean. I've seen what you can do. I know what you can handle. You ain't gonna break.” Benny lets go Dean's cock and wraps his arm, instead, around the small of his back, pulling him forward. A few more strokes, and Benny's ring finger is slipping in alongside his middle. Dean bites out a sound, gripping the vampire, _hard_ , and Benny just soothes, hushing him. “You get a leg out them trousers so you can sit right down in my lap,” he coaxes, low. “Don't be shy, Dean. I see you, brother; I got you.” And Dean knows he should feel guilty for this. Before Castiel, there was no one, and after Castiel, there should be no one else. But then there's Benny, steady and quiet and strong of hand and he's unwavering, coaxing, comforting. It's been so long, and Purgatory is so hateful.

Dean leans all of his weight onto his right knee and lets Benny help him wrestle his jeans down as much as he can while his opposite hand is occupied with stretching Dean open, yanking them over his boot until the hunter is free enough to straddle Benny's lap and settle down. Now, Benny works his fingers deep, letting his arm return to Dean's waist and hug him in close. This—this warm, sure comfort in the dismal endlessness of Purgatory—is what Dean's needed all this time.

Benny's fingers sink into Dean's body to the last knuckle, and finally, Dean's teeth let go the fat of his lower lip and he cries out. He arches forward with a low growl, wrenching his fists in Benny's lapels and hauling him forward; they kiss like fighting, hard and quick and viciously rough. Benny bites so sharply at Dean's lip that it splits, translucent skin flayed away from pink meat beneath. “That's it,” Benny croons, tracing up a rivulet of blood with the tip of his tongue, and he presses at the small of Dean's back, plumbing deep inside velvet heat without elegance, calloused fingers, scarred knuckles, egging the hunter on: “Show me what you can do.”

Dean's not sure if Benny means to be patronizing and can't bring himself to question it—can't think beyond the haze behind his eyes, beyond Benny's hand sneaking up beneath his shirt, fingers spreading, flattening over the small of his back. “Gimme one more,” Dean says, and Benny grunts his approval, spreading his fingers inside of the hunter, making room for his index finger to join them. Benny knows what he's looking for and he finds it quick—curling his fingers, pulling forward hard enough to give Dean's body a jolt. Dean drops his head, roots into the crook of Benny's neck and sobs. His hand unclenches itself, at last, from the lapels of the vampire's coat, clumsily tripping down across his belly to the brass button of his fly. Dean can feel Benny rustling beneath him, hips shifting to let the hunter at him, and Dean fumbles to get him out, pulling back just enough to uncover his eyes from Benny's shoulder and look down.

Like every other part of him, Benny's cock is thick and stout and when Dean gets him in hand the vampire gasps, rumbling something animal, guttural, gripping Dean around the nape of his neck and pulling him into a wet, biting kiss. Dean breaks away to spit unceremoniously into his palm before reaching down to grip Benny's dick and finds he doesn't need wetness to ease the way. It's a quick, easy glide of nerve-riddled flesh, cleanly smooth where the penis of a circumsized man—like the vessel, Jimmy Novak—is deeply ridged and almost jarring, at times, and Dean knows to make his hands careful and attentive when he handles Benny, pumping him slow. When the vampire groans, Dean pants, “That good?” and Benny growls back, “Yeah. Yeah, that's real good,” and his drawl is languid and heavy.

Dean lifts his head and watches creases form at the outer corners of Benny's eyes, feels those fingers go slow and lazy inside of him, and then those fingers are gone, sliding wetly out. Benny's hands spread out over Dean's ass, palming his cheeks, pulling him apart and guiding him up higher onto his knees and Dean goes easily, releasing the wet, weeping thickness of Benny's cock and replacing his hands on the vampire's chest. Benny urges the hunter to strain upward by the backs of his thighs and when Dean sees his head bowing, a flash of pink tongue, he strains harder, gripping Benny's coat and thrusting upward until the head of his cock paints glossy-wet across Benny's lips, gets sucked into the warmth of a freshly-fed mouth and Dean groans; his knees quake beneath him like they'll give out at any moment.

Dean's hips are tentative, the instinctive forward thrust of them barely restrained until Benny's hands grip at his thighs and urge him forward. The groan Benny earns himself, then, is a desperate one, hungry and deprived, Dean's fingers clamped around the back of the vampire's neck to draw him forward, open up his throat to be fucked and Benny takes it. God, Benny takes it like he wants it as bad as Dean needs it, working the blood-hot, musky-sweet taste of the hunter down until his throat is full and his nose is buried against Dean's pubic bone and Dean is groaning like he's helpless, murmuring like prayer.

When Benny comes up, his mouth wet and pink and grinning, he leans his head back and looks over Dean's flushed, needy face with laughing blue eyes. Dean squirms, works his mouth around a complaint—he's empty and he's wanting and Benny's _amused_ , he's _grinning_ —and Benny shushes him before he can speak: “Don't give me that look.” He curls his fingers around the pits of Dean's knees and pulls, dropping the hunter into his lap. He braces both arms at Dean's back and suddenly, they're turning, as easily as if Dean weighed nothing.

Dean plants both elbows on the fallen trunk behind him, looking up at Benny with wide eyes and a slack, panting mouth, plumped up and wet from kissing, blood-splotched from biting. Benny hitches the hunter's legs up, turns him, and Dean is on his knees again, his ass up, his upper body sprawled across the log. Two rough, knowing hands hike layers of shirt and jacket up over the sleek, muscular line of his back and he hears Benny growl out his approval, a slow, teasing _mmm, mm, mmm_. “This is a good damn look for you, brother,” Benny croons, purposely bedeviling.

“Benny,” Dean warns. He lowers his hips, threatens to drop them, deny the vampire if this continues—he just won't tolerate it—and Benny's fingers curl tight around the meat of Dean's hips and haul him back up. In a breath, the hunter feels something hot and fat and slimy-wet against the clenching muscle of him, and he tightens, anxious, until he's soothed by the quiet rumble of Benny's voice, and the stroke of a calloused hand over his spine, down his side, over the small of his back.

“Shhh. Easy, now. This what you want?”

“Yeah,” Dean whines, feeling his spine sink into an arch, feeling his knees scuffle in the dirt, spreading. He drops his head, buries his face into the crook of his right arm and reaches back, grasping for Benny, and Benny finds him. He locks his fingers into Dean's, balls their hand into a fist and he leans forward, stretched out over the hunter, and their arms, as one, circle around Dean's midsection and Benny holds him tight.

Benny presses into him again and grunts at the nervous clutch of muscle, but he's firm, so patient with Dean that it makes him feel childish, inexperienced. Clumsy. He lets Benny go and grips at rough chips of dying bark. “You relax for me, Dean,” Benny says. “You trust me. I ain't gonna hurt you,” and a steady hand finds Dean's wrist, guiding him back, leading his fingers into a firm grip around his forearm, where the limb wraps snugly around Dean's middle. “Right here, Dean. Right here. I got you.”

Dean clutches at Benny's arm, holding on, breathes out when Benny tells him—breathes out when Benny pushes in. The vampire, expecting some resistance, stumbles on his knees, bracing himself with one hand at the small of the hunter's back. It's a tight fit, only just wet enough, and Benny withdraws, spreading Dean wide with one hand and letting a globule of saliva fall to flesh where the hunter's open and stretched, where Benny is splitting him wide. He spits again and slicks himself, easing the way for a second thrust that Dean arches into, sobbing into his arm, his fingertips digging into Benny's coat.

“Too much?” Benny coos, leaning forward, pressing flat over Dean so that his lips can meet the flushed skin of the hunter's ear. Benny feels Dean's head shake out an unsteady _no_ , seals his mouth against the bristles of golden-brown hair at Dean's temple and purrs low, rolling his hips, rooting deeper into that body—hot and human and thrumming with nerves and Benny can _feel_ his blood rushing, feel the pound of his pulse, alive, energetic.

Benny gets an arm around Dean's chest and pulls him up. Dean reaches back, claws at the base of Benny's skull when his hips find a rhythm, a firm, even stroke. Hard, plumbing. Dean writhes, whimpers, throws his head back against Benny's shoulder and the vampire just presses him closer, harder into rotted wood, kneeing Dean's thighs farther apart and angling his thrusts until he's pounding in just right, just fast enough, just hard enough and _right there_ , Benny's cock slamming past the hunter's sweet spot on every stroke, on every in and every out.

Dean is groaning, pushing back, meeting Benny thrust for thrust. The vampire's mouth seals around Dean's pulse—there's a scrape of teeth, pin-pricking into flesh and Dean moans, bewildered, wrenching his neck away, scolding, “Benny, _no_.”

“Dean,” Benny warns in return. “Just one little taste. Trust me.”

“God,” Dean groans, tilting his head to the sensation of Benny's lips on him, warm, suckling kisses, affectionate, intimate. “Just—just one,” Dean manages to pant out, and Benny agrees, “Just one little taste,” pinning Dean hard to that fallen tree, hip-to-hip, tightly braced. He grinds himself so deep inside of the hunter that he gasps, bucking back when Benny's hand dips down and fists his cock, tender and neglected.

When Benny's teeth sink into him, they're tentative, careful. Benny's hips calm, begin to work like waves breaking: slow, gut-deep rolls of his pelvis that keep Dean moaning, sobbing, sighing, pushing back against the force of the vampire's body. His hand twists, squeezes, and it's a fine distraction from the quick pain of teeth sinking into Dean's neck and withdrawing stickily, pulling beads of dark blood to the surface of golden flesh, hot and coppery. Benny's nostrils flare; he closes his lips against Dean's flesh and drinks deep.

Dean's eyes clench shut and flutter open, mouth falling on a breathy sigh of surprise at the sensation of his blood being sucked out of him, pulled from his veins directly. His vision blurs; he swoons, gasping, “Jesus, Benny. Careful,” and Benny grunts, tightening his hold on Dean's cock, pumping him firmly.

Benny drinks until Dean's head goes light and his eyelids flutter. He swipes his tongue over dual puncture wounds and lets Dean down against the tree, and Dean's arms sprawl across it, eyes bleary, glassed, but he's awake; he's conscious and warm and incredibly pliant, tongue snaking lazily across wet lips. Benny grips Dean's waist with both hands and fucks him with renewed vigor, lapping away the tang of blood on his lips, on his teeth, his fangs retracting behind a wolfish grin.

When Dean comes around enough to finally speak, finally open his eyes, he moans without inhibition. There's blood rushing back into him, reestablishing its course—cells multiplying, filling him, and he's thrumming with it, coming back to life and so full with it that Benny can smell it on him and he licks his lips. Dean's so tender after Benny feeds from him that his every nerve sings, feeling spent and raw, already, sensitized, and his eyes brim with wetness, tears conjured up by an aching, burning sort of pleasure. Draped across the tree trunk, he clings to the log like he's lost and drowning, sobbing out praise, pleading drunkenly, dizzily, “Fuck me, Benny. Give it to me. Fuck me deep, please,” and his knees are quavering, slipping in dirt and yellowed grass until they're spread wide enough that Dean feels the pleasant stretch in his groin. Benny digs into the muscle of Dean's shoulder with one hand, the sturdy angle of his hip with the other and braces his knees, widens his stance and fucks long and deep and quick into Dean, grunting, huffing.

Benny palms the hunter's ass and spreads him open, leaning into his thrust until he's as deep inside of Dean as he can physically go on every stroke and Dean is keening, delirious, still dizzy with blood loss. “Good Lord, Dean,” Benny spits, watching himself sink into Dean, watching the pink, wet rim of the hunter's body open up and take him deep. He pushes his coat back to watch his thrust slow, watch Dean writhe and squirm on his cock, mouthy with ineffective complaints, sharp curses that just get laughed off, low and rough.

Dean bites out, “Benny, _fuck_ me, come _on_ ,” and pushes back with as much force as he can manage, given the state of him, and Benny shoves Dean's shirt high on his back, wrestling with his jacket until it's off, grappling at his shirt until it comes easily over Dean's head and Dean's naked, exposed, being smoothed down by two big, well-labored hands.

“In good time,” Benny says, “All in good time,” and Dean doesn't have to look back to see the smirk on his lips as the vampire watches the strong lines of his body work and shift and pull, desperate and straining for some sort of gratification. Dean braces his knees into the ground and pushes back, finds Benny sturdy and solid behind him and he thrusts back once more, tentative. Benny pulls his coat back and again, he watches, watches the curve of Dean's waist flex and stretch as he fucks himself, manages to take his pleasure into his own hands. Dean straightens his arms beneath him, fingers gripping into damp bark, and he works his hips back into Benny, licking his lips, grinning at the low, gruff approval he gets when he twists his hips just right.

Benny slides his hands up along Dean's spine, back down, molding them into the flesh of his hips and anchoring his hold, stilling the self-indulgent grind and roll of them. Dean groans his disapproval, struggling against Benny's grasp until the vampire concedes, pushing Dean forward, pulling him back on the sturdy length of his cock. He sinks right back in, and Dean moans like he's relieved.

“Part of me wants t'see how long we can hold out,” Benny muses, fucking Dean slowly, lazily. “See how long you can take this. 'cause y'know, brother, I can go an' go. Keep on just like this for as long as I care to. See how many times I can get you to the edge and bring you back before you slip up and lose it. Oops.” He chuckles low and leans forward, reaching around Dean and gripping his cock, squeezing from root to wet, wet tip like he means to milk Dean of every drop. He dips his head and speaks rough into the hunter's flushed ear: “Now, wouldn't that be a shame?”

“God damn it,” Dean spits, bucking back. “Thought you were gonna—take the fuckin' edge off, not— _nngh_ —make it worse.”

Benny steadies him with a firm hand in the center of Dean's back, fist working, twisting, tormenting the tender head of his cock. “That's what I told you, 'n that's what I'm gonna do,” he rumbles, simple as a weather report, lips moving against the curve of Dean's neck. “Didn't say how we'd get there. Just that we would.”

The hunter grits out, “Fuck,” and twists his hips into Benny's fist. He nuzzles back into the contact, into the nudge of the vampire's nose at his earlobe. He can feel the scruff of Benny's chin against his jaw and he's greedy for it.

“Now you tell me what you know I wanna hear, Dean,” Benny croons. He squeezes tight at the base of Dean's cock and grins against his ear, “Real pretty, now, lemme hear it.”

Dean whines when the pressure at the root of his dick becomes painful. Benny relents, but doesn't ease up by much, his stroke tight and demanding, his hips still, cock buried to the root inside of Dean, whose muscles clench and ease, thighs unsteady, quivering. He drops his head, exposes the nape of his neck to the vampire. The hunter groans, despairing, against his bicep, eyes clenching shut.

“I don't—” He begins, voice breaking, quivering. “I don't know what you want me to say.”

“You do know.”

“Please—”

“Close, brother.” Benny strokes Dean firm and steady, slow, beginning to move his hips, and it's in such perfect time that Dean whimpers against his forearm.

Dean's breathless when he says, “Please. Fuck, Benny. Just fuck me, please. I need it. I need it.”

And Benny laughs, both hands sliding up over the swell of Dean's hips, fingers digging into muscle. “There it is,” Benny growls, beginning to fuck Dean proper, earnest, holding him steady in place while his hips work in deep, lengthy strokes. “Sounds so pretty when you say it like that.” Dean's hand replaces Benny's on his cock, and he strokes himself frantically, desperate for release now that it's so near, so within reach—finally, concluding months, months after dry months.

“Benny,” Dean pants, and Benny gives a deep, throaty groan.

He braces a hand on Dean's hip and a hand on his shoulder, his strength—all of it, preternatural force—gathered up behind heavy thrusts that have the hunter keening, have his fingers scrabbling on wet bark for a hold to ground him, his chest raw where soggy chips of wood have rubbed at him, scratched at him. But it's the last thing on his mind and Benny is the first, Benny's hands and his strength and the smoked-raw croon of his panting out, “I got you, boy. Daddy's got what you need right here.”

Some faraway piece of Dean's psyche answers violently to this, Benny's words, and Dean arches up, soundless, bucking back into the vampire until he has to dig his knees in the ground to withstand the demanding push of Dean's hips. Benny binds him up within both arms and crowds him back down against the log, fucks him so thoroughly, so deeply, that Dean can feel the shove of it up deep inside of him. Dean comes over his own fist, his opposite hand clawing desperately at the hip of Benny's trousers. All that hold him are the earth and Benny's arms when his muscles give, and he slumps, sighing, groaning, quaking against rotted wood, the vampire rooting deep inside of him, burying in as far as he can go to fill him up, let go with an animal growl and breed the hunter up hot and full.

Benny slows, but doesn't stop fucking Dean until he's quivering all over and his nerves are absolutely spent, and he's pleading with Benny to _stop, pulloutpulloutpullout, fuckin' stop, please._ Benny just laughs, sighs like he couldn't be more satisfied than he is, right now, his cock sliding wetly out of Dean's body, fingertips stroking, prodding at the mess he's made. “You sure make a pretty picture, lookin' the way you do,” and Benny licks his lips, hungry, lusting, at Dean, still quivering against the fallen tree.

Benny uses the inside of his coat to wipe the sticky mess from his cock, and he tucks himself away, finding Dean's shirt in the darkness. He leans forward, lets most of his weight rest on Dean, crumpling the t-shirt up and working it down over the hunter's head. Benny lowers his mouth to Dean's ear. “You rest awhile longer, while it's still quiet.” Dean begins to protest as he's slipping his arms tiredly through the sleeves of his shirt. Benny smooths it down over his body and tuts at the hunter, masking the tiniest spark of bitterness behind a gruff warmth that only he can manage, “Now, we'll find that angel o' yours. Gonna take time, brother.” He helps Dean turn over, easing him down onto Benny's makeshift bedroll and beginning to work the leg of his jeans and underwear back up over his boot. He hauls Dean's hips up and wrestles his jeans underneath him, adjusting the fly, zipping him up, snapping him shut. Dean, with a sated little smile on his lips, watches Benny through heavy-lidded eyes and Benny reaches for him, curls his fingers around the hunter's nape and nestles his thumbs behind the angle of his jaw. 

They kiss lazily, slow and deep. Benny feels Dean's fists curling into his coat, one at his sleeve and one at his lapel.

In the quiet, in the fire-lit dark, Benny watches the hunter sleep, knowing well that he dreams of no monsters—only angels.


End file.
